Versions Poem by Oleg Vorobyov

How verse is born? What mystery
is in its being brought to life?
Who verse conceives, and then gestates
to be delivered to the world?
Verse is an offspring of the wind,
a gale, a gust or just a whiff,
when words to harmony are whirled
and bourne on wings to winnow skies.
Or verse is hammer-coined to molds
of different shapes and fad designs,
red-hot, shipshape, explosive tumults,
ideas fused into the words.
Or verse is nee of mother-of-pearl,
begotten, nurtured in bivalves:
the flaps are oped, and fine verse
shines pure brilliance of wit.
Or verse is stormed into existence
in rash precipitous cascades,
in foamy, smoky, offensive
mad waterfall of icons, flicks.
Or verse's the breath of hoary ridges,
the heaving innards of the earth,
magmatic images' up-flow,
setting to verse-forms when erupt.
So, verse is knit of what-not strands:
its multitudinous being
is, on the one hand, strange, arcane;
and, on the other, so natural.
24.02.2015 г